MASTER TAYLOR AT CRAIG ARTHUR.
"The most powerful of the human passions is love in its mystical,
ideal, spiritual fervour."--_Essay on_ BROWNING.
"It is foolish to be afraid of making our ties too spiritual, as if
so we could lose any genuine love."--EMERSON.
So, being rid of the burden of so many weary weeks, Lady Shanno
returned bravely to her solitary castle, and her knight to his
humbler dwelling in the valley, looking for no higher joy than to
know that some radiance might in God's mercy shine forth from their
pure and holy lives athwart the darkness of the strife and
bitterness, which, reigning throughout England, overflowed in no
small share into the far-distant Welsh valleys. Scarce could any
district in the principality follow the fortunes of the fallen king
with more loyal enthusiasm and devotion than the fair vale of
Gwynnon, roused by the gallant deeds of Sir Ivor Meredith and many
another brave owner of those sturdy strongholds which crowned the
rocky hill-tops, and above all by the devotion of the people to the
memory of the brave but unfortunate Lord Bryn Afon, who had given his
life for his sovereign, and expiated by a noble death his early deeds
of sin and folly--the fatal inheritance of his forefathers. And in
the year after his death the zeal of the simple folk was freshly
kindled by the news that at the battle of Cardigan their favourite
preacher and their beloved vicar's bosom friend, Master Jeremy
Taylor, had been taken prisoner, whereupon much excitement ensued,
and great sympathy was enlisted on his behalf, and finally, he being
allowed his freedom, though deprived both of his chaplaincy to the
royal forces and of his living in Rutlandshire, was induced by his
noble friend the Earl of Carbery, who dwelt at the brave mansion of
Gelli Aur, beyond the river, to seek retirement for a season in the
valley he loved so well, and with the earl's help and patronage to
earn a livelihood by opening a school at Craig Arthur, which noble
mansion was generously thrown open to his use by Sir Tristram, during
his own absence on the field of battle, his wife being safe the while
within the walls of her English home. So on these fair wooded
heights above the river good Master Taylor entered upon a new
vocation, and it was not long ere many well-born youths of the
neighbourhood flocked to his school-house, one among them being Sir
Ivor's son, little Elidore of Caer Caradoc, Lady Shanno's gallant
champion. And so glad were all those who knew the gifts of learning
and piety possessed by this good and holy friend of Master Vere's to
place their children under the care and influence of so rarely gifted
a master, that the great man did not want for pupils during the years
of his humble retirement, while the poor folk in the country villages
received with pride the kindly word and smile he was wont to give
them as he passed on his frequent walks between Craig Arthur and
Cwmfelin Parsonage. For no door was so gladly opened to him as that
of his old friend Percival Vere, whom his loving friendship and
society greatly cheered in the labours and anxieties of his now
somewhat turbulent parish, and with whom he was wont to take "sweet
counsel" daily when his work was done, becoming himself too a member
of that "League of the Holy Cross," which met week by week for prayer
in the church on the hillside, and under Percival's direction
laboured bravely, in spite of ridicule and obloquy, in the cause of
temperance and sobriety throughout the neighbourhood.
A coffee-house, built by Lady Shanno close upon the riverside, became
a frequent resort of many who had hitherto spent night after night at
the village tavern or the inn at the cross-roads, and within its
pleasant walls the sweet sounds of her wondrous harp strings, or of
her own beautiful voice, might be often heard, ringing out into the
still evening air, while lectures on the nature and evils of strong
drink were made as interesting to the listeners as the learning and
eloquence of Jeremy or Percival could make them, and were week by
week thronged with eager men and women. At such gatherings the
introduction of politics was rigorously excluded, such topics
receiving during every other night in the week a share of attention,
both at home and in the open street, which was not conducive to the
peace of the parish. For in proportion to the zeal of the king's
humble followers in the wild Welsh hamlets was the hatred and
fanaticism of those who sided with his enemies or vaunted an
independence their little country was powerless to maintain, so that
party strife reigned supreme over hill and dale, and often in the
hollows of the dark woods and lonely copses by the riverside there
lurked wild spirits thirsting for vengeance on their foes, and in
knowledge of whom Primrose often trembled for the safety of her
faithful knight, who, intent upon his mission, passed continually on
errands of love and mercy by night as well as by day along the
unfrequented byways and over the wild hills, and was in frequent
peril of rude attack and insult, if not of bodily injury from those
who both in religious and civil matters opposed his teachings.
But there were still few in the hamlet itself who would not have
cheerfully laid down their lives for their vicar, such love and
devotion had he awakened in their rough yet warm and tender hearts;
and had any lawless spirit of the country-side ventured an actual
attack upon him, but sorry treatment would he have received at their
hands. Indeed scarcely less was their love for him than for the Lady
Shanno herself, the radiance of whose youthful beauty her many
sorrows had but changed into a more chastened and ethereal charm,
touching her face and form with lightly-reverent fingers, as though
loth to mar a thing so fair. From far and wide the poor thronged to
her castle gates, with their tales of woe or pleadings for help and
guidance, no longer remembering with any dread that curse which had
till but lately held back their trembling feet as with some strong
spell from venturing within a stone's-throw of those grim grey walls,
but conscious only that within those frowning battlements and
mouldering stones dwelt one whose praises were sung throughout the
quiet vale, whose very shadow was blessed by old and young, and the
sound of her footsteps welcomed like the tread of an angel, and for
the sake of whose loving smile and tender word of sympathy the most
superstitious believer in the old tales of horror would bravely cross
the once-dreaded threshold, and even pass fearlessly along the dim
resounding corridors to reach the sanctum from which the meanest
among them would not be turned away without a hearing.
It was also Shanno's great delight to throw open her doors to the
lads of Master Taylor's school, especially to his own three
motherless boys and their inseparable friend little Elidore of Caer
Caradoc, and on many a holiday afternoon the old halls would ring
with the merry boyish voices till twilight would draw them by common
consent to Lady Shanno's boudoir, where clustering round the glowing
fire they would coax the old boatman, seated in his old oak chair in
the ingle-nook, to tell them tales of his own boyish days, specially
delighting to hear him recount the history of the building of his
beloved bridge, on which he could expatiate for hours together,
telling of hairbreadth escapes from drowning in connection therewith
and of adventures at flood-time such as are ever dear to the boyish
soul. And often while his flock were safe in the charge of their
heroine, to whom they vied with each other in devotion, Master
Taylor, with books under each arm, would gladly slip away to Cwmfelin
Parsonage, to enjoy a few quiet hours with his friend Percival Vere
in the old wainscotted library, where already the vicar could boast
of shelves of books hardly less noteworthy than those of his aged
friend and predecessor good Master Rhys. There the two young
clergymen were wont to spend many a delightful hour in literary
conversation and pursuits, Master Taylor bringing with him precious
manuscripts of his own, and reading aloud to his friend passages from
the works on which he was diligently engaged in his leisure moments
between school-hours, and on which he delighted to receive Percival's
ever-ready sympathy, and such advice as his humility could be
prevailed upon to give to one whom he regarded as of infinitely
greater learning than himself. Especially did the friends take
counsel together upon the production of Master Taylor's _Golden
Grove_, written, among other books, during this time of exile, and
with much interest Percival awaited its completion, feeling with
Jeremy himself that the day was not far off when the use of the Book
of Common Prayer would be surely prohibited for a season, and that in
such a deprivation this work of his friend's would be of greatest
value and comfort. Indeed the young vicar was beginning to feel that
ere long he too might share Master Taylor's fate in losing his cure
and being forced to hide his head till the storms of increasing
religious agitation had blown over, and he often contemplated with
pain and dread the day when his beloved little church on the hillside
should in its turn be desecrated by the sacrilegious hand of
Cromwell. Such a grievous calamity seemed indeed only too perilously
near, when Caer Cynau itself was invaded by the Republican army in
the year 1648, and the country-side rang for months with the wild
excitement of the sieges of Pembroke and Tenby castles. Indeed it
was but just across the river, beyond the wooded hills which ran
along its farther shore, that, on the lonely heights of Glascoed,
Oliver himself encamped for a time, during which season party feeling
rose to boiling-point at Cwmfelin, and enough arrows were aimed
across the Gwynnon at those distant heights from the cross-bows of
Master Taylor's pupils on the battlements of Craig Arthur, to have
slain a score of Cromwells, had the "field of tents" been within the
range of these gallant young Cavaliers. Then, during the sieges of
those brave old strongholds of Pembroke and Tenby the fair vale of
Gwynnon sent the flower of her youth to their defence, and for three
months they held out bravely under their valiant defenders, among
whom Sir Ivor of Caer Caradoc and the gay Sir Tristram of Craig
Arthur were not the least noteworthy. But the Roundhead forces were
too strong, and the surrender of Tenby in June was followed by that
of Pembroke in July, and the brave youths and gallant knights
returned sad at heart to the valley.
Meanwhile the little church at Cwmfelin still stood bravely, and the
peace of the village remained uninterrupted throughout this stormy
season except by its own internal warfare and strife of tongues,
which day by day waxed more bitter and clamorous.
It was a fine time for the boys at Craig Arthur, who, lying in deadly
ambush through many a long summer's afternoon upon the wooded slopes
beneath their ancient school-house, made at twilight many an exciting
escape from their bushy hiding-places by means of boats moored below,
in which they would row with all the hushed secrecy of dread reality
to the boatman's bridge, Master Taylor himself being at the helm, and
conclude their exploit by scaling the steep greensward of Bryn Afon
and startling its young mistress by showers of blows upon the ancient
oaken doors of her fastness. Or, as a reward for exceptionally good
conduct and studious behaviour, a privileged few might sometimes be
seen wending their way with slow, laborious step and bowed and aching
back along the rude subterranean passage which, on its way from the
distant Caer Caradoc to Bryn Afon, passed by Craig Arthur and was an
altogether too tempting mode of access to Lady Shanno's domains to be
wholly forbidden. And there was not a boy in the school but vowed
that he would at any time make the journey through the secret passage
alone at midnight, just for the sake of seeing the Lady Shanno's
beautiful face and golden hair, since to each of them she was not
only the impersonation of all graces and virtues, but also surrounded
in their imagination with a halo of romance such as made of her the
fairy princess of an enchanted castle, or the very Queen Guinevere of
olden times, re-incarnated in the pure and holy form of a saint! But
of all her champions none equalled in chivalrous devotion little
Elidore of Caer Caradoc, who spent much time at the castle, his
mother being so frequent a visitor, and again taking up her abode
with Primrose during her husband's absence at the siege of Pembroke;
and of his own particular favour with his heroine he made no small
capital among his envious schoolmates. A beautiful boy was young
Elidore, bidding fair to be a worthy successor to his father's
ancient name and estate, and in his black velvet suit and deep
point-lace collar, over which his thick auburn curls clustered, and
with his handsome features and bright brown eyes, a picturesque
occupant of the ancient halls he dearly loved to frequent. Born many
years after their marriage, he was the idol of his parents' hearts,
and Primrose loved the boy with scarcely less devotion. "When I am
grown up I shall marry you, Primrose," he remarked one day, as he lay
at full length upon the hearthrug playing with her favourite spaniel.
"I think it is very unkind of all these brave knights in the valley
not to have married you long ago!"
"Perhaps she would have none of them, my son," said Lady Rosamond,
glancing at Master Vere, who had been engrossed in deep conversation
with Lady Shanno, but started with a look of mingled amusement and
pain at the boy's speech, and clasped his hand tenderly round the
slender fingers which sought his. "Perchance they are all at this
very moment dying for love of her and she will but say them nay! Be
not over bold, my son, for it may be Primrose doth not choose to
marry." "She will marry me," said the boy confidently. "And I shall
give her dresses of gold and silver, as many dresses as the great
Queen Elizabeth, and she shall go out hunting with me in the forest
with a falcon on her wrist! How all the boys will envy Sir Elidore
of Caer Caradoc! Unless," and he suddenly glanced suspiciously at
the chaplain, and his voice took a tone of anxiety--"unless Master
Vere marries her first! If you very much want to marry her, Master
Vere," he added magnanimously, though with a sigh, "you may have her,
for it will be rather long before I am a man, and perhaps she may get
tired of waiting. Master Taylor says one must never keep a lady
waiting!" A shout of laughter at this climax covered the blushing
discomfiture of Primrose, who said gently; "You shall ever be my own
gallant champion, Elidore; but do you see these grey hairs on my
head? By the time you have your falcon ready for my wrist I shall be
too old to go a-hunting, and my hairs will all be white. Then you
will perchance not love me quite as now?"
"I shall love you when you are as white as the boatman," answered the
child promptly; "and I know you are not yet old at all, although you
have so many silvery hairs. Master Vere has many of them too, and he
is not old either, for Master Taylor has told me that he is himself
just one year older than you, Master Vere, and he is but thirty-five!
Indeed, mother, he will not chide me for telling, for it was but
yesterday that he wrote for me in my copy-book, 'Age is honourable.'
So if I tell an age I must be 'honourable' too!"
"I am verily none so sure of that," answered Lady Rosamond with a
laugh. "But I would have my son honourable in all things, sweet
Elidore, and that I trow good Master Taylor will not fail to make
thee. Now prithee hold thy prattling tongue, and list to what
tidings this letter brings us of thy brave father, and meanwhile
Master Vere may have time to consider his acceptance of thy noble
relinquishment of the Lady Shanno's hand!"
* * * * * * *
So, with her home enlivened by the innocent wiles of children, and
cheered by the daily visits of the poor and suffering to whom she
loved to minister, the Lady Shanno saw at last her ancestral halls
free from the stain and reproach of the past; and knowing the name of
her father's ancient house to be blessed in all the country-side, she
bore the self-imposed burden of her life with brave cheerfulness,
ever sustained and comforted by the unselfish devotion of her ideal
knight, whose name "Sir Galahad" had never been more truly deserved
than during these years of their mutual self-sacrifice.